


Horror of our Love

by aykayem



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Altered Mental States, M/M, Murder, Stalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-17
Updated: 2011-04-17
Packaged: 2017-10-18 05:25:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/185507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aykayem/pseuds/aykayem





	1. Harry

You make a point of avoiding dark corners, alleyways, ever being alone. It’s not hard - you have enough friends. All it takes is shifts. A few a day, and you get to see everyone for a few hours at a time. Do they mind?

Do you care?

What matters is that your heart’s in your throat when you’re by yourself, when you feel that awkward sense of being watched no matter where you are. You know he’s there, and it’s just a matter of time before he makes his approach. He’s been watching you - keeping an eye on you, he might justify - for ages, for gods know how long. You’ve seen the notes he leaves you, hopelessly romantic epithets written in your friends’ blood. Those friends who weren’t with you, who were unlucky enough to get caught unawares.

Maybe they ought to pair up too.

You can’t count the funerals you’ve been to anymore. Too many, too many from the war, from the countless, pointless murders that followed. You don’t understand his obsession, don’t understand why he’s doing this to you. Why he’s rendering you alone in a world you’re already alone enough in.

Perhaps the war drove him mad. Merlin knows he lost everything.

Or perhaps he’s only trying to make you understand that you’re the only thing the other has now. That you’re two peas in a pod, the only two who speak a dead language. You want to scream, to tear your hair out, to make him realise that you’re not speaking the same language - if you were, he’d leave your friends be.

The funny thing is that he killed his own first.

Your hands feel perpetually sticky from blood you haven’t spilled, but still has your name attached. There was very little that was properly your fault, and yet you manage to feel the same level of guilt for every body lowered six feet under. As you watch yet another familiar head of red disappear beneath dark soil, you feel your heart sink that much more. Lain beneath headstones with cryptic messages carved, you realise that none of them deserve this.

It’s only your own weakness that keeps this charade going.

You’re down to no one soon. Those that remain stay far away; you don’t blame them. You can’t. It’s only their own survival instinct kicking in, and you can’t keep asking them to give up their lives for you. This isn’t a war. It’s just an obsession.

Just a little crush, maybe.

Either way, you find him soon enough. Watch his face break into a rare smile, bright and gleeful. Like a little kid just given exactly what they wanted. It’s probably not that far from the truth. His mouth moves, but you hear nothing - your heart’s pounding in your ears, and you know what’s next.

It’s not good.


	2. Draco

You know he doesn’t appreciate it. You know he doesn’t understand it. He never did. He never had to worry about these things. He’s got too many friends around him to have to worry about much.

You know they’d do anything for him.

They’d lay down their lives for him. If you have any say in the matter, they do. The first time you kill, it’s a painful experience for both of you - you don’t bother finding out which one it is. The most you want to know - need to know - is that it’s a Weasley. Obnoxious red hair, too many freckles.

Their blood matches their hair.

It was probably accidental. It was probably just fate that you hit the wrong - the right? - artery, taking a splatter of ochre straight to the face. They deserved it anyway.

Everyone thinks your first kill was Blaise.

Everyone was wrong.

It was this Weasley, first and foremost. You remember it vividly. The screams, the shrieks, the way they try to scramble away, hand clamped awkwardly over their thigh. It didn’t help them much. You just wish you hadn’t missed. It was a bitch to clean up.

It was easy after that.

You almost wish it hadn’t been. Or perhaps that you hadn’t realised just how easy it was. You heard what they all muttered about you behind your back, when they thought you weren’t listening, or when you were just out of earshot. That you’re crazy, bloody loopy, completely off your rocker. You wondered once if they’d say the same if it were them.

Your affections have never been easy to obtain, but you know now that they’ve never been swayed.

From day one of your first year together, you knew it was destiny. There were no two ways about. Just his friends stood in the way of you then, and just his friends stand in the way now. Easily remedied, you know. A knife here, a well-placed blow there.

You hate how pained he looks each time.

You know he gets the messages. You know he understands them. You know everything about him. He’s like an open book to you, and you hate how his friends claim to be so loyal.

See how loyal they are when they’re dropping like flies.

You find him one evening alone. You know he’s been waiting for you - he’s known it’s been coming a long while now. You feel a small giddy leap inside you, your heart in your throat; you know you’re smiling, and that no amount of resistance will keep it from your face. You stop trying.

You look fucking manic.

You don’t care.

He cares, though. All you want to do is make him feel more at home. Hard when he’s not at home, of course, but you try your best. He’s beautiful when he’s terrified, when that facade of bravery has finally slipped and you get to see - actually see, instead of assume - his true colours.

No one hears him scream.

That’s because he doesn’t.


End file.
